I Know You Remember – Jennifer Donaldson

THE URN IS SMALLER than I expected. It’s green—her favorite color—and made of aluminum, and even though it’s less than a foot tall it’s heavy. Dense with her ashes. With her body. With my mother, broken down into a million crumbling pieces. It sits on a small altar at the front of the little chapel, and I can’t take my eyes away from it. Even with the funeral director standing at the lectern, reading some poem I’m sure I okayed in the meeting we had a few days ago. Even with the sound of weeping behind me. The urn takes up all my vision, soaks up all the light in the room. The green is dark, the same color as the Douglas firs she loved. The color of the mossy stones in the shadows of the Columbia River Gorge. The thought makes me close my eyes tight. It’s been a week since the accident. My body isn’t a body anymore, it’s a machine that I have to operate through force of will, pulling levers with all my might. I’m somewhere inside of it, tiny and exhausted.

I have to shout to be heard from in here, and so sometimes it’s easier not to speak at all. Sometimes it’s easier to close my eyes and sit in stillness. But everyone seems to want something from me, and so I keep having to guide my machine-body through the motions. For instance. Next to me, I feel Ana Maria putting her hand on mine. She’s my case worker. She’s nice enough. I don’t have any family in Portland, besides my mom, so Ana Maria’s been helping me make all the arrangements. She helped me set up the funeral, helped me make a reservation for the flight to Anchorage tomorrow night, helped me close out Mom’s accounts, her credit card and the utilities and the apartment lease. She’s definitely one of those people that believes in meditation and support groups and grief counseling, and she’s already given me a book called Present in Loss: Surviving the Death of a Loved One through Mindfulness.

And even though I just feel numb, and tired, I have to force my machine-body to move yet again, so that she doesn’t think I’m just some kind of monster who can sit here during her own mother’s funeral and stare out in space. I open my eyes and look down at my lap and let her take my hand. The room is packed, but that’s only because it’s such a high-profile death. The women from her office sit in a row just behind me, crying into their handkerchiefs. There are college kids in the crowd —Mom was a well-liked registrar at Reed—and a handful of my schoolmates, though I hardly know most of them. All around I hear the quiet rustle of people shifting in their seats, craning their necks to get a glimpse of me or of the urn or of the blown-up photo on the easel at the front of the room that shows my mom, smiling her dimpled smile. Even in the midst of all these people, all these wellwishers, all I want is to talk to Zahra. But she’s a world away, and I’m alone, and surrounded. “And now, Lori’s daughter, Ruth, will play one of Lori’s favorite songs for us,” says the funeral director, nodding toward me. I make my robot-body get up and walk onto the dais.

I don’t look out into the crowd. My guitar is already set up next to a chair; I pick it up, hook the strap around my shoulder, and take a breath. Then I start to play. It’s an old pop ballad from the nineties, and I’m playing an instrumental arrangement—I’m not a singer—but everyone recognizes it. I can see people moving their lips to the unspoken words. In the arms of an angel. Mom used to sing it off-key every time it came on the radio. I remember her in the little trailer where we moved after she left my dad, crooning while she did the dishes. I remember rolling my eyes at Zahra as we breezed past her on the way to my room, the two of us laughing hysterically over her earnest, yearning face. I remember every part of that sun-drenched summer when I was fourteen, when my mom fluttered at the edge of my vision like a mildly irritating moth.

When I ran free with Zahra, the two of us writing stories and roaming the woods, turning our jeans into cutoffs and eating mountains of candy. It feels like forever ago, even though it was just a little over three years. All I want to do is go back. That girl I was—she seems impossibly young, impossibly innocent. She takes so much for granted. She has no idea how much she stands to lose. The song comes to an end. I sit still for a moment, cradling the guitar. My machine-body feels frozen, and I realize I’m not sure whether to get up and go back to my seat or not. Nobody moves.

My eyes light on the urn again. And now there are more memories to deal with: my mom, sipping from a Nalgene bottle on a high promontory in the Gorge. Below us stretches the river. Mountains bare their jagged teeth against the horizon. This is her favorite place, and she is peaceful. I want to stop there, but I can’t. My muscles seize up now, my fingers curling anxiously around the guitar’s neck, because it happens again and again in my memory, and I can’t stop it or change it, because it’s done. The next moments come in choppy fragments. She takes a step. She’s so close to me.

If I’m fast enough I can put out my hand to stabilize her and stop it all from happening. But I’m not. I’m not. Her foot twists and the water bottle flies from her hand, out over the cliffside, and my eyes follow it as it spins around and around into the vertical drop. And then I look back at Mom. She’s leaning backward over the empty air. Her eyes are so wide, so wild. And then she’s gone. — I AM ONLY VAGUELY aware of time passing. I shake hands, hug classmates, talk to people who knew her.

She was shy but warm, my mother, and the people around her were drawn to that. But it strikes me that there are no dear friends here. No one who knew Mom’s stories and her tics and her jokes. We kept to ourselves the last few years, and these people all worked with her or knew her superficially. The thought hits me with a pang, and I think, am I finally going to cry? Am I finally going to feel something besides exhaustion? Then it passes. Three hours later, I’m back at the apartment. I kneel on the floor of my living room in front of three boxes (donate, throw away, keep), sorting through our piles of belongings. I’ve been holding a throw pillow for twenty minutes, trying to decide where to put it. “How you doing in here?” Ana Maria stands in the hallway, a box of half-used shampoo bottles in her arms from cleaning out the bathroom. She’s a short, round woman, still in her funeral clothes.

For once I can see the tattoos she usually covers up with her cheap work blazers: birds flying, flowers bursting into bloom. I usually feel like tattoos are supposed to make you look tough, but on Ana Maria they somehow look vulnerable, and the phrase wearing your heart on your sleeve keeps popping into my head. “I’m fine.” I shove the throw pillow into the donate box just so I don’t have to look at it anymore. “Just a little distracted.” “Of course.” She sets the box down and sits on the sofa, watching me closely. “Maybe it’s time for a break. Want to go get coffee? Or ice cream?” “Thanks.” I give her a weak smile.

“I just want to get this done.” She’s so shabby and so earnest, and I don’t know why but some tiny part of me despises her for it. There is too much pain in the world to live like that. She’ll get hurt, and it’ll be her own fault. I want to tell her to toughen up. I want to hug her close and then shake her. She picks a piece of fuzz off her skirt and idly rolls it between her fingers. “Are you nervous about seeing your dad again after so long?” she asks. I look down at the pile of clothing on the floor—Mom’s clothes. I know immediately I’ll donate most of them, but I pick up a fuchsia cardigan and pretend to examine it so I don’t have to meet Ana Maria’s eyes.

“I guess, a little,” I say. “I talked to him on the phone. He sounds . different. He’s been sober for almost three years now, so that’s good. But it’s going to be weird to see him again.” We’ve barely spoken since the day Mom packed up our clothes and moved us out of the house at the end of eighth grade. He went to rehab not long after, and I guess it took, but Mom had had enough by then, and I guess I had, too. We talk on the phone a few times a year, and he always sends a gift card at Christmas. Last year I missed his wedding to Brandy, some woman he met in AA (and yeah, I had a good laugh about her name).

“But I’m glad I get to go back to Anchorage,” I add. “I miss it.” I glance up to see that familiar look of interest in her eyes. Everyone reacts like that when they hear I was born and raised in Anchorage. It’s either, oh wow, what was that like? Cold? Dark? Did you ride a dog sled to school? Did you see moose walking down the street? Are you an Eskimo? (Yes/yes/no/yes/that’s actually a slur, and no, I’m obviously not Inupiaq.) But Ana Maria just nods. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to go.” That’s the other reaction. People have seen footage of the cruises and the bus tours.

Calving glaciers, frolicking otters, grizzlies catching salmon, jagged peaks. All of which is a part of it. But living there is different. Living there means shoveling snow and getting up in the dark to go to school and practicing regular earthquake drills. Still, I miss it. I miss the long summer days, the honeycolored light stretching into midnight. I miss the mountains across the east and the dark glitter of stars in the winter. I miss the inlet and the lagoon and the creeks and lakes and streams. I miss Zahra. “Mom didn’t miss it at all,” I say.

I throw the sweater into the donate box. “She hated the dark and the snow. It made her depressed.” “I can understand that,” Ana Maria says. “It’s hard to imagine what that’s like.” “It never bothered me too much.” It’s not totally true—but I do have some good memories, of curling up with a book and some hot chocolate, of watching the neighbor’s Christmas lights make colorful patterns in the snow. Darkness is like that. It can make you tired and sad, or it can make the bright spots stick out even more. “Well, it’s going to be a big adjustment,” Ana Maria says gently.

“And . look, Ruthie, I’m not here to tell you how to feel, but . there are a lot of different ways to grieve. Some people cry and scream and suffer out loud. Some people . some people need a little bit of time, to process everything. And whatever you’re going through, whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. It’s not wrong. Just make sure you listen to your heart and give yourself room to heal.” I look up at her, startled.

I thought I was putting on a good show for her. But suddenly I realize Ana Maria isn’t quite as oblivious as I thought. I feel seen, which is both scary and soothing. Is she saying it’s okay that I’m numb? Okay that I’m feeling flat and robotic? “Grief unfolds over time,” she says, making an opening- book gesture with her hands. “It changes day by day. Today you might be going through the motions. Tomorrow it might all hit you, or the day after that. Just be kind to yourself, no matter what. Okay?” I feel my lips start to tremble. And I realize, this is what I needed.

Permission. Validation. It’s okay to feel nothing. It’s okay to feel tired. “Okay,” I whisper. I glance at the urn where it rests on the kitchen island. I think of my mom that day in the Gorge. She loved hiking but she usually went alone. We’d grown apart over the past few years. I suppose a part of me resented her for moving us down here.

But that day, I’d decided to go with her, on a whim. And I’m glad. Because the look on her face when I offered to come made it worth it. She’d been surprised, thrilled, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, Ruthie, I can’t wait. It’s a perfect day for it. Here, you can wear my boots.” Yes. I’m glad I went. Because even though it’s not the goodbye I would’ve wanted, it’s the closest I have.

I look back at Ana Maria. “Would you mind if I finished up on my own?” I say. “It’s almost done. I just want a little time alone with her things.” I tug at the end of my braid, twisting it around my fist. Ana Maria’s gaze softens. “Are you sure?” When I nod, she looks around the living room. “Well, the bathroom is done, and the bedrooms are mostly empty, I think. This is the last of it. Arc of Multnomah County will be out tomorrow morning to pick up whatever you don’t want.

Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to help?” “I’m sure. I’m just going to order pizza for dinner, get through this last little bit.” She chews her lip, then nods slowly. “Sure,” she says. “If you need me, you can text me.” “Of course.” I hold back as she gathers her bag and jacket, half afraid she’ll change her mind. But then she’s gone, and I’m finally, blissfully, alone. I turn back to the almost-empty apartment. Really all I want to do is curl up in the pile of my mother’s clothes and rest.

Instead, I start to gather up armfuls of her things. Her work clothes, her jeans, her exercise gear. The one snug blue cocktail dress she never had a chance to wear anywhere. I shove them all into donate. The box isn’t big enough but I don’t care. I shove shirts and skirts and slacks on top until it looks like some kind of clothing volcano, exploding in color. I pick up the urn and again think how strange, how unlikely, that this is the entirety of her body, made into a small, portable object. It doesn’t feel like her. It feels like a thing—one more thing that I have to pack. Our balcony looks out over a narrow strip of landscaping to a busy street beyond.

My downstairs neighbor isn’t home, which is good; I don’t want them to freak out about what I’m going to do next. The cremains smell strangely earthy. The pieces are bigger than I expected, but they crumble easily in my hand, into a fine powdery ash. I hold out a handful and the breeze catches most of it, though some rains down on the hedges below. I’m not sure if human remains are good for the soil, the way some kinds of ash are—but I like to imagine that they are. That she’ll make the trees grow big and strong, that they’ll house baby birds and squirrels. I honestly don’t know if Mom would approve of this or not. We didn’t understand each other. But I do know she wouldn’t want to be stuck in a vase. The urn is light and empty, and I feel that way, too.

I feel more focused, more centered. I go back inside and put it into the throw away box. Then I pull out my phone and pull up Zahra’s number. Arriving in Anchorage this Sunday, I type. Can’t wait to see you. I hit send. I’m ready to go home. CHAPTER TWO IT’S NEARLY ELEVEN IN the morning when my plane lands in Anchorage. I barely slept last night, and I was too nervous to sleep on the flight, so I have that stretched-thin, almost hallucinatory sensation you get from exhaustion when I step into the terminal. Everything is too bright, too loud, too strange, after the hushed darkness of the plane.

I adjust the grip on my guitar case and follow the rest of the crowd toward baggage. Before I leave the secure area I stop in one of the restrooms to brush my teeth. I barely recognize myself in the mirror—this girl with her long, serious face and dull skin, the color of old lace unraveling. Or maybe that’s just the cruel fluorescent glare of an airport bathroom. I comb my hair and wipe smudges off my glasses and splash water on my cheeks. It’s the best I can do. Will Dad even know me? What did I look like three years ago? Shorter, with more pimples, with chubbier cheeks. But he hardly ever looked at me that last year Mom and I were with him—so maybe he doesn’t even remember that much. I’ve stalled as long as I can. I have to leave sometime—though for a moment I imagine living in the terminals, spreading my coat in the darkened corners to sleep, eating from vending machines and Cinnabon.

Riding the moving walkways back and forth all day. The thought makes me smile, and the face in the mirror suddenly gentles and becomes me again. I pick up my guitar case and my backpack and head out past security. My eyes twitch back and forth over the waiting crowd. I want to see him before he sees me. I’m not sure why—it’s just that the idea of him watching me as I approach, being able to size me up before I can do the same to him, makes me anxious. Then I think I see him, and I have to stop and blink a few times to make sure. Because he’s the same, and he’s different. The last time I saw him was the end of middle school, when Mom moved us out. And he’d been in bad shape—drunk by the time I got home from school, brooding in his armchair and flipping through channels on the TV.

He’d always been a drinker, but it got much worse after he was laid off. He’d started to look somehow both flabby and sunken, and his skin had been raw and red all the time. The man just beyond security looks like that father, but from an alternate dimension, one where he’d never collapsed under the weight of his own addiction. He’s tall and broad shouldered, with just a little flab at his waist, and while his cheeks are still ruddy, it looks more like a healthy flush than a drinker’s bad skin. He’s clean-shaven and his button-down shirt is freshly pressed. His eyes meet mine, and neither one of us moves for a second. Then he waves at me, a nervous smile twitching across his lips. I can’t pretend I didn’t see him there. I walk toward him, my mouth dry as sand. “Your hair’s gotten so long, I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says as I approach.

He looks down at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out how to put together. “It’s always been long,” I say abruptly. When I see his face I realize it sounds like an accusation, so I add, “But I used to keep it in a ponytail.” He nods. Then, before I can say anything else, he pulls me into a hug. I’m still holding my guitar case, and it knocks awkwardly against his leg, but he doesn’t let go. “I’m so sorry about your mom,” he says into my ear. “We ended things badly and I never had a chance to make things right. But she was a special woman, and I’m so sad that you’ve lost her.” I’m pressed against his shoulder so I can’t speak, which is just as well, because I don’t know what I’d say.

Make things right? How would he make things right? Travel through time? But suddenly he’s wiping tears from his eyes, and I don’t know what to do. I’m disoriented, and tired, and I’ve never seen my dad cry before. I look down at my feet. He straightens his back and takes a deep breath. “Sorry. It just brings up so many memories. So many regrets.” “Tell me about it,” I mumble. The vision of Mom’s foot, slipping a bare half inch on that mossy stone, hovers at the edge of my consciousness; the image of her eyes, wide and wondering, as she tilts backward . but I shake my head and it clears.

“We should get your luggage,” Dad says. He leans down to take my guitar case from me, but I pull it away. He doesn’t say anything, just turns and leads me down the escalator to the carousels. We stand close to each other in the crowd around the conveyer belt as floral old-lady-tourist suitcases make the rounds next to duct-taped fishermen’s coolers and canvas military duffels. I can feel Dad next to me, wanting to say something, so I keep my eyes determinedly on the bags until I see mine. I know I will have to figure out how to talk to him sooner or later, but right now it all seems so fraught. I just want to feel my feet on the ground for a few minutes first. On our way out, we pass one of the airport’s taxidermied polar bears, snarling on its hind legs. A cluster of hipster tourists gather around it, taking selfies. I remember seeing the bear as a little kid— along with the musk ox and the trumpeter swans and the beaver in different displays around the airport—and feeling like it was a fluffy, friendly presence, the way you think of a teddy bear.

Now, though. Now I can only see it as a trophy. It’s a wild thing that was killed and put under glass, transformed into a curiosity. It breaks my heart. He loads my stuff into a beat-up old Honda—that, at least, looks as shabby as I expected. The radio is set to a Christian rock station and it’s not long before the yearning power ballads grate on my nerves. Since when does my dad listen to stuff like this? Since he started recovery, I guess. I wonder what else I don’t know about him. The drive is just as surreal as everything else. I’m so tired the world vaguely sparkles, with little vision tracers popping in the corners of my eyes.

This is the place I’ve thought of as home all my life —but I haven’t seen it for three years. It’s like having a dream where you’re walking through a building you know well, but the layout is just a little bit off, or there’s a room you never noticed before. I look out the window and tick off the things that are the same and the things that are new. The old salon Mom took me to—still there. But the bakery where we used to get croissants after? Gone, replaced with a CrossFit. The trees look small and ragged compared with the ones in Oregon; the lots we pass are choked with weeds, and I notice a lot of shuttered businesses. The sky is low and gray. Mid-September weather. I sneak a look at my phone. Zahra still hasn’t replied.

My heart gives a little twist of anxiety. Our contact’s been erratic for the past few years—we text and email every so often, but she’s not great at staying in touch. She doesn’t really do social media, either, so I can’t keep up with her that way. It’s hard to know what her life’s been like. But I was sure the news that I was coming home would get a reaction. My dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “So, your stepmom and Ingrid are at the house waiting to meet you,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re real excited.” The house. Not “home.

” I’ve never been to my dad’s new place; he sold my childhood home after the divorce. But I know he and Brandy bought a place together, not far from the woods where Zahra and I used to hang out. “Okay,” I say. Then I realize he’s probably waiting for something more. “I’m looking forward to it.” It is the furthest thing from the truth. I have never been good at getting to know people. Sometimes I just want to hide, or withdraw, rather than risk the awkwardness. Dr. Karadzhova, the psychiatrist mom found for me, called it social anxiety, and he was probably right, I guess.

He always told me I just had to realize how little other people actually cared about me and I wouldn’t worry anymore, which is a very Eastern European way to comfort someone. But now I have an insta-family, and I’ll have to figure out how to deal with them. With Brandy, and her daughter, Ingrid. All I know about them is that Brandy is a recovering drug addict, and Ingrid is my age, two months into her senior year at Merrill High. We pull up to the rear of a dark blue house surrounded by chain link. Brandy and Ingrid are in the yard, sitting at a beat-up picnic table and watching for us, and I feel a tightening in my shoulders. I stay in the front seat while my dad grabs the suitcases from the back. It looks like they’ve got a brunch spread on the table, which is sweet, but all I want to do is go to sleep. Now there will be cantaloupe and small talk to deal with, and I just don’t know if I have the strength. But when Ingrid jogs over to beam at me through the car window, I open the door and let myself out.

“You’re here!” She comes in for a hug without hesitation, ignoring or not noticing the tension in my body as she wraps her arms around me. I’ve never been much of a hugger. “I’m so glad I finally get to meet you.” She’s a plump, pink girl, neatly dressed in a fluffy white sweater and a yellow skirt. Dark blonde hair hangs in a straight line on either side of a bland, clean-scrubbed face. If anyone ever looked like an Ingrid, it’s this girl. “Um. I’m Ruth,” I say. Then I feel stupid, because she obviously knows who I am. Her smile just gets wider.

“‘And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’” I stare at her. “It’s from the Book of Ruth,” she says. “In the Bible. One of my favorite sections. It’s all about loyalty and friendship. Women taking care of other women. It’s very empowering.” “Oh,” is all I can think to say. I’m way too tired to try to deal with someone who has a favorite section of the Bible.

“Hi, sweetheart.” This is Brandy. She looks like a more weather-worn Ingrid—or, I guess, Ingrid looks like a less weather-worn her. She’s come around the other side of the car, and I feel a little like I’ve been caught in some military maneuver, a pincer snare or something. Another hug: Brandy’s body is bonier than Ingrid’s, and there’s a warm, sweet smell to her, like bread. “Welcome home.” My dad comes out from behind the car, dragging both of my suitcases. He hands me the keys. “It’s yours now,” he says. “Well, yours and Ingrid’s.

You guys will have to share. But she doesn’t have her license yet.” “I failed the parallel parking test,” she says cheerfully. “It’s okay, I don’t mind riding shotgun. I like playing with the radio.” I hope she has better taste in music than my dad, but it doesn’t seem likely. “Thanks,” I say, turning to Dad. The keys feel foreign and clumsy in my hand. I look again at the little car with new eyes. I’ve never had one of my own—in Portland I had to ask to borrow Mom’s.

The Honda’s not much to look at, but it’s mine. Well, ours. “You’re welcome.” It sounds almost formal, but when I look at him he’s smiling. “You’ll need to be able to get around. It’s on you girls to keep gas in the tank, though.” “Hungry?” Brandy asks. “Or do you just want to get a little sleep? You must be wiped out.” “I’m pretty tired,” I say. “But you went to the trouble .

” I gesture toward the table. She shrugs. “It’s nothing that won’t keep until later. Ingrid, why don’t you show her to her room? Rick and I can unload the car and you can go downstairs to rest.” Ingrid doesn’t even wait for me to reply. She grabs my backpack and slings it over one shoulder. “Come on, Ruthie, you’re downstairs with me.” “Are we sharing a room, then?” I try to keep the trepidation out of my voice. She laughs. “Just a bathroom.

We’ve both got our own rooms on either side of that.” She opens the door onto a small landing and points up the stairs. “Mom and Rick sleep up there,” she says. “We sleep in the semi-basement but it’s kind of nice because we have privacy.” We descend into a big open room with windows set high in the walls, looking out on the flower beds at ground level. There’s a TV and a dumpy old sofa on one side; the washer and dryer rumble softly on the other. A pool table takes up the middle of the room, serving the function pool tables always serve in rec rooms: a folding station for clean laundry and a surface on which to stack random boxes. A dark hall leads down to our rooms. “Rick had me decorate your room,” Ingrid says, sounding suddenly shy. “I mean, obviously you can change whatever you want now that you’re here, but I wanted you to feel welcome.” She pushes open the door to reveal walls painted with pink glitter. The curtain and bedspread are white with black stripes. My name decorates the wall over my bed in black vinyl decals. There’s a gallery of framed typography art on another wall—LOVE and DREAM and WISH spelled out in gold-leaf script. “Wow,” is all I can say. I’ve always hated random word art. It feels like a command. And I wonder how hurt she’ll be if I paint the walls right away. They remind me of Pepto-Bismol, and it leaves a nauseated, chalky feeling in my throat. But she’s beaming with pride. “I’m glad you like it!” She bustles over to the bed and actually starts turning down the sheets. Now that I’m here, in my room, all the adrenaline that’s been keeping me going has dried up, and I sway a little, waiting for her to go. It seems to take forever. She smooths my sheets—which I see now are pale pink and threaded through with gold—and fluffs my pillow. I close my eyes and almost immediately see the deep grayish dark that usually means I’m falling asleep. Finally, she straightens up again. Her bright blue eyes meet mine. “I’ve always wanted a sister,” she says. If I can just say something banal and noncommittal like, “Me too,” or “I’m glad I’m here” she will leave and I can go to sleep. But all possible words stick in my throat. The moment drags out— it’s maybe ten seconds of silence but it’s time for me to simultaneously fret over hurting her feelings, resent her for saying such a weird thing, and then recursively wonder if it’s not weird at all and if I’m the weird one, failing to handle normal human social cues. Social anxiety is nothing if not brisk and efficient. But she finally just smiles a little. “Anyway. Rest well, okay?” And then she leaves. Finally. I pull off my jeans and slide down between the sheets. The room swirls around me a little. Quick snaps of the last few days’ events flash across my vision. No—I don’t want to see it. My gaze falls again on the type art. HOPE, says one of them, in flourishing cursive. “Fuck off,” I mumble out loud. “You can’t tell me what to do.” Then I turn my face into the pillow and slip away from the world.

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